Happy Endings
by Revanche
Summary: Tony lets time go lightly.


Title: Happy Endings   
Author: Revanche  
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB. Summary's from a Chapin song.  
Rating: PG-13   
Feedback: Would be wonderful.  
Spoilers: None, really, but it takes place after "Missing."

xxxxx

He's not sure what awakens him, only that he's awake with no memory of choosing to be so, and no idea as to why he is. Or where he is, for a long moment which would have been frightening had he not been distanced by what he quickly realizes is the usual post-night bleariness and not the result of another scary abduction scenario. Sort of the same cause, though. But he recognizes the room as his own, and he leans back against the pillow before the effects of a sudden rise in elevation really take hold. The surroundings are familiar, or at least relatively so. He uses these rooms, makes them his by existing in them for a few hours each day. As if this gives him the right to be comfortable here, to know this as home.

He stops before that thought can go any further, not unbothered by the images it brings, and too worn to do battle with those particular thoughts. They're better dealt with underneath harsh unnatural lights, his hands shoved into his pockets as he smirks down at dark-haired forces of opposition, she who looks upon the nature of the beast with the distaste of the truly repressed.

The clock on his bedside table is unplugged, its display blank. Timeless. He drags a hand through his hair, sighs. The curtains are open, revealing a clouded sky. It looks windy, cool, and he tugs the blankets tighter around him. The silky sheets, expensive and genuinely beautiful, provide no heat and he sighs, feeling a chill which he knows is more psychological than physical, though the effects seem to be the same. Thinks wistfully of the safety of dreams and the unrelenting assault of noise which undoubtedly awaits him, and knows that this day is his to waste. He closes his eyes and abruptly recalls dirt crumbling under the pressure of flailing hands and the irreversible future contained within the utter post-explosion silence, the dark copper spilling across his hands. Knows that this is what awakened him, and he opens his eyes before the image can render itself fully.

He throws off the blankets, gets to his feet with a speed and grace borne from the need to flee nightmares. Makes his way to the bathroom as reality begins to break through the haze of sleep-induced enervation. The tile is razor-sharp with cold. Catches a glimpse of dark scratches on his back reflected in the mirror as he turns. Remembers pale hands grasping, painted nails, foreign design etched in thin black at the small of her back. She's already gone home, of course. He knows better than to look for her here, to expect otherwise. He remembers her breath, hot and worried, on his face when she'd woken him at some obscenely early hour. She'd had to go to work, and he'd mumbled something, rolled away, and went back to sleep. Yeah. Well. She'll call if she gets bored, and he won't hold his breath.

He opens the mirrored bathroom cabinet, seeing for only a second himself reflected infinitely. The fractal-esque image is replaced with a disconcertingly neat array of products, both over-the-counter and imported, inordinately expensive. The Excedrin is set apart, though, easy to find, and the plastic edges of the cap bites into his hands as he twists the lid. He crunches the tablets between his teeth and winces at the sound, leaves the plastic bottle on the countertop and doesn't close the cabinet door.

The apartment, as usual, is silent. He wonders if anyone else in the building is awake, if anyone he knows is awake. He could find out, but he's not entirely sure what he would say, or why he wants to know. Why it's suddenly important to know. Why the hell it matters.

He crosses his arms, wanders over to the window. Looks out on a cold, dreary day, a thin layer of clouds already separating earth from sky. He looks out above the street, over the cars, over the careworn geometry across the street and the jagged skyline in the distance. Easy to believe that it's just him, him and the dawning emptiness, the droplets battering against the windowglass, melting away without effect. He looks at the clock again, blinks to clear his vision and the numbers resolve into digital green lines. Still early morning rain, then. No place to go, he thinks, but he's never been much for that. Too hippie, too slow, long hair and tattered jeans. He's more of a fast, smooth-lines type of guy. James Bond, minus the accent and cool weaponry. He's got the clothes, though, and the tendencies. Brosnan, not Moore or even Connery. Modern. Cutting-edge. It's not really funny.

He switches on the coffee machine, wanders away as it comes to life. The television is on, muted. He squints, trying to read the newscaster's perfectly-outlined lips, and eventually gives up, unable to remember the last time anything immediately important happened on a Saturday. He turns and sees that there are rose petals spilled across the kitchen table, because she liked flowers and he bought her one on the way home, an impulse, a manipulation and almost utterly spontaneous. She liked flowers and this one is shredded, now, the edges of the crimson bursts crinkling, slowly dying in this grey light. He wonders why, doesn't know if it happened before or after, and doesn't want to think about why it matters. Crosses the room quickly, brushes the petals into his palm and doesn't watch them flutter into the trash, catch on the black plastic liner.

And his head hurts, suddenly, and he takes a mug from the cupboard and pours himself a cup of coffee, takes a sip as brakes squeal in the distance and a motorcycle engine revs. His head hurts, but he cannot bear this silence. He ignores the radio, the vaguely-rock songs that make an inability to be attached seem romantic and almost noble, because this morning light will lay bare their lies and their sentimental attempts at justification, will make obvious the truth and the facts. He'll get that later, from other sources. He reaches for the remote, turns up the volume on the television and listens to the traffic reports and the weather forecast. Light winds and rain continuing throughout the day, and he falls asleep sometime after that, coffee forgotten and news irrelevant.

The day passes. Morning fades into afternoon, and then evening. He leaves before the sky grows dark, tells himself stupid jokes about the conquest and the thrill of the hunt. A different woman's laughter fills the dreaded silence, the empty corners. She forgets his name, but it's late and the night has been colorful and blurred enough for him to be able to laugh it off, to pretend that it doesn't matter.

The light on his answering machine remains black, unlit. He looks away from the desk and smiles at her. It's not like he expected anything else.

xxxxx

The End.


End file.
